


Ideologues Discussing

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homless Character, M/M, Modern AU, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a meeting to attend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ideologues Discussing

When Grantaire closes his eyes, he sees an avenging angel, backlit by the sun where the Parliament building ought to be, but it isn’t—because the Parliament doesn’t make an appearance in his dreams, only angels and gods, and some combination of the two, blazing a trail of glory and rebellion toward his ultimate goal of liberty.

(A foolish goal for a foolish person—but he’s got more drive than Grantaire ever had, and so there really is no room for judgment on his part. And yet he does so, anyway.)

He opens his eyes, spitting toothpaste and saliva into the cracked sink, running water to wash it down the partially-clogged drain and to rinse his toothbrush before he dries it against the sleeve of his jacket, tossing it into the smallest pocket of his knapsack, zipping it closed. (He runs his tongue over his teeth, appreciating the cleanliness, even though the water is grainy and generally unfortunate to use.)

The shelter closest to the Eiffel Tower is often crowded and often gets the least attention by the government—which is fine. It’s also easier to get booze here, as well as other things, depending on what strikes an individual’s fancy. (Grantaire has only ever had a penchant for booze—he doesn’t have the time or the money for any other vices, not like that.

And especially not now.)

He passes by the people, cramped in the shelter, in the same boat as him, and steps out into the Parisian morning, shaking out his hair against the chill.

Today is the Metro 6.

And then he has a meeting to attend.

-

Enjolras had not, honestly, expected Grantaire to show up to anything, much less the protest and much _less_ the meeting the Monday afterward. And yet here he is, his knapsack resting under the chair upon which he sits, his chin resting in the palm of his left hand, his thin fingers curling up the side of his cheek. His expression is absent, even as the meeting comes to order (they need to speak about Saturday, bring the masses in higher numbers, swarm the streets in bitterness).

But his eyes are alight with intensity.

(Enjolras’ skin prickles under a stare like that, even though no one looks any less focused than he does.)

He sits upon the table at the front of this room (the Senate uses it on Tuesday evenings for policies and other such things), crossing his legs before him, leaning back on his hands. “How do we feel about the stirring on the streets this weekend?”

“It was impressive,” Combeferre speaks first—as is his prerogative. He helped plan the entire affair. “I didn’t think that many people would come. The officials that came out to break it up looked nervous about it—about _us_. I think they’re going to remember you, Enjolras.”

(He shrugs—he’d rather be remembered as an irritant than written off as nothing worth concern.)

“I thought it went very well!” Bahorel says with customary enthusiasm. “It didn’t even break into a fight! I was under the impression that it would—I had brought bandages, just in case.”

(Grantaire snickers at that—his nose wrinkles with the soft sound, a mocking smile turning into something  genuinely amused.)

“And,” Enjolras catches Grantaire’s attention with the word (and his ribcage feels too small at how quickly he managed to get it), “what did _you_ think—since you seem to be of the idea that people would rather be pressed under the boots of others.”

(A smile, wry twist). “You’re putting words in my mouth—I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that, unless you’re speaking poetry.” His eyes glitter and he feels that his cheeks might flush. “What I _said_ in Eponine’s flat was that it’s in human nature to subjugate and to make a grab for most of the treasure. It’s why capitalism is, at its core, a base around individuals looking out for their own interests.” ( _How can you even remember what you said?_ part of him asks. The rest of him is impressed by the display of memory.) “And _I_ think that you could inspire a field of grass to grow ten times faster, if only you spoke to it as you did to the people.”

That _does_ embarrass him, a little. But Feuilly chuckles into his hand at the compliment, and Jehan scribbles something down that screams of poetry. Eponine merely shoves him on the shoulder, and Grantaire’s face breaks into a full-fledged smile, the mockery melting away, dripping from the end of his chin.

“But that doesn’t answer my question,” Enjolras says.

He shifts in his seat, regarding Enjolras with a frown, then, and his hand drops away from his face. “Do you _want_ me to answer your question?”

(He nods because _obviously_ —he wouldn’t have asked, otherwise.)

Grantaire swallows, pulling at the sleeves of the jacket he never seems to be without. “The protest was good,” and the breathless way he says this makes Enjolras’ ears ring. “It was engaging and inspiring and _remarkable_ —but there weren’t enough people. There wasn’t anything really _done_ —you made people angry. But would they stand with you if you needed the people to testify to impacts on their communities? Probably not. You’re—you’re a _remarkable_ speaker. But where is the bang for your buck?”

His eyes had been locked with Enjolras’ as he spoke, his hands resting atop the table, tapping out a nervous spattering of percussion, on the surface of the table.

The room is silent, except for that rhythm.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

Grantaire laughs, bowing his head. “You want _suggestions?_ How to motivate people behind your cause? Your _causes?_ You’re going to need the poor to get angry for you as well.”

He contemplates, watching Grantaire’s expression shift from earnest to depreciating.

“See me after this—I’d like to hear more of that.”

-

Eponine has offered Grantaire her flat on Wednesday this week—rain is forecasted then, and he needs to call his sister. The others will also be there, for drinks and stories and things a little less serious than for what everyone meets for during the hours on campus.

(He can’t tell of he feels grateful or patronised, some days.

But he thinks today he feels grateful.)

The sun is setting behind Enjolras’ head, outside the window of the Senate room (he remembers this place from the semester he spent here, quiet and slowly slipping down toward the bottom of the bottle), setting his hair on fire and defining the structure of his face.

Grantaire’s fingers itch.

“So, what, exactly, is the issue? We’re trying to help the poor.” Enjolras tucks his legs under him, sitting on his knees upon the table, looking eager for information that he doesn’t have right _now_. (It’s just as stunning as the rest of him, and Grantaire hates himself.)

“That’s the issue—you’re trying to _help_ the poor, not involve them.” The room is empty, save for them, the others having studying to do, unnecessary for Grantaire’s limited explanation of these flaws. He rests his knees against the table, admiring the frown on Enjolras’ face. “Middle class students—barring Eponine, who has a kid brother to raise—inspires middle class people to get angry. But the poor? They don’t pay taxes, normally. They haven’t got the funds. What you _could_ do, instead, is explain how this will affect the things they _do_ use. The homeless shelters,” with their terrible Laundromats and grainy water and cracked and leaking toilets, “the transportation system. Middle class protesting for the middle class doesn’t provoke numbers—only what appears to be righteous fury.”

“And you think approaching it from a more concrete standpoint would help?”

Grantaire leans close, so only a hair could fit between their noses ( _oh God, what am I doing, what am I_ —) “I’m saying that I _know_ that would help. I’m saying that your harking back to the days where the middle class didn’t exist means very little to those who haven’t been in it. I’m saying that you’re scaring the middle class from becoming poor—you’re not implying that the poor will gain anything more than what they already have: nothing.”

Enjolras blinks at him and Grantaire can feel his breath on his lips—and he steps away. “Sorry—“ he says, digging his thumbs under the straps of his backpack, bowing his head to focus upon the floor. “Sorry—I just. I talk too much,” he swallows (and he pictures angels on ceilings—and then he feels the stick of alcohol tossed down his throat).

He heads for the door, casting a glance back at Enjolras (whose lips are parted—probably in indignation, probably in _disdain_ ).

But as Grantaire opens the door, he hears a murmured, “ _thank_ you, Grantaire,” behind him.

Warmth prickles up the back of his neck and he feels as if he’s run the circumference of Paris, wings sprouting from his back.

-

Enjolras purses his lips against the sensation of breath ghosting across them, grabbing his things minutes after Grantaire had left, a churning starting low in his gut.

(But he made some valid points— _excellent_ points—but—

Enjolras is having trouble remembering a single one.)

-

Grantaire sketches, that night, at the bus stop near the lane where artists spend most of their time, sketching angels and gods and mortals and those stupid enough to follow them.

A bottle of beer rests between his trainers.


End file.
